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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102051">in seas of passiflora</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanyuan/pseuds/shanyuan'>shanyuan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Passifloraceae</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Dark Academia, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Original Character(s), Substance Abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:09:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanyuan/pseuds/shanyuan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In an enigmatic, rather secluded part of North Holland, there was a forest, a sea, and more lakes than what was necessary. Creil was the name of the woods—within that forest was an academy with twelve buildings; six of which were housings, for the select students that were chosen to live on campus. Cyclopia Academy of Arts. Established during the early years of the 1800s, belonging to a prestigious family in the Netherlands. There were twelve areas of focus that a student could choose to major in, although the reason why a number of the wealthiest families in the world were adamant in sending their children there was not found in any of the provided course catalogues. The housing committee was known for their austerity when choosing pupils to board their houses, but if the price was right, they'd be significantly lenient with their decision—that much, the world was aware of. </p><p>Inside those campus walls laid a willow tree surrounded by scabiosa that put all twelve buildings to shame.</p><p>And buried six feet underneath was one body and three secrets; which, in the grand scheme of things, mattered not. Unfortunately enough, Yang Feng-Mian cared too much about the littler things.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prologue | day 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>self-indulgent 'fic, yes?</p><p>in all honesty, i have no idea what i'm doing. my writing is subpar, at best, but that will notTM stop me from writing my muses (and as well as my friends') in a dark academia setting. this is an ambitious thing for me to do az my vocabulary is not very well-suited for these kinds of stories, but oh well?</p><p>i'd like to thank my friends (aysel &amp; yumi) for lending me their lovely OCs for this 'fic. i'd also like to apologize in advance because i'm at least 79% sure that i'm going to butcher your characters one way or another as the story goes on. UWU</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her hands were shaking.</p><p> </p><p>And so were her lips, her legs, her fingers. Mian watched her carefully from a distance, along with the other students; always from a distance. The girl in front of them had tears cascading down her cheeks, flowing and flowing until her mascara stained her cream blazer, until the back of her thumbs became riddled with black because she kept wiping them away—futile attempts to keep them at bay. </p><p> </p><p>They were right. The Mourning Bride was beautiful, lovely, albeit demented.</p><p> </p><p>“You did this to him,” she chokes up on a sob, the corner of her eyes twitching evidently under the gradually intensifying stares of the students that stared at her. “You all <em> killed </em> him and you're not even doing anything to deny it!”</p><p> </p><p>The corner she cowered in grew darker with shadows; more and more people flooded out of their respective classrooms and into the particularly wide alcove next to the building's marble staircase, murmuring among themselves as they watched the bride with amusement and apathy. They were wrong, Mian thought. They were wrong to look at her with anything else other than pity and shame; the students were all deranged for stifling their laughter, for messaging their friends under the shallow light of the hallway, urging them to excuse themselves out of third or fourth period just so they could all make fun of the crumbling shell of the widow—or what's left of her, at least.</p><p> </p><p>She shoulders the gnawing anxiety all on her own; that was what Mian did best in this school. That was all that she could do in this hollow, melancholic, pathetic excuse of a school.</p><p> </p><p>First, it was Nicholas Aliaksei.</p><p> </p><p>He stepped forward a few moments after, promptly taking off his eyeglasses and tucking it deep inside his blazer's right pocket. The ends of his favorite quill poked out once his glasses were in place—though no one else seemed to notice. Either that, or maybe it was just Mian reading too much into things again. She blinks to avert her attention. “That's enough. Get back to your house or else I will..”</p><p> </p><p>“You will <em> what, </em> Nicholas?” She grits her teeth after her sudden interruption, pointing accusingly at the Belarusian with her trembling forefinger. “Report me to my house leader? To the headmaster? Do you think that would actually <em> change </em> anything?”</p><p> </p><p>Nicholas says nothing in retaliation; he only looks down on her, fiddling with the chain around his neck, his eyes searching the crowd of students for something that none of them could ascertain. The overall attention shifted to Nicholas right then and there.</p><p> </p><p>Second, it was Hiyori.</p><p> </p><p>Hiyori and the light gray scarf wrapped insistently around her wrist. She puts her left foot behind her, posture as poise as it should be, eyes staring straight ahead at the stone wall. The murmurs die down for a second when she lets a sigh escape her lips—but they resurface again, as soon as she lets herself get drowned by the silence.</p><p> </p><p>The clock ticks, and it ticks, and it ticks. The lot of them fixate on the sound.</p><p> </p><p>“Throwing a temper tantrum—going on a frenzied rage…” Almere's house leader pushes herself forward once more. Mian didn't get it. The students were always watching from a distance; they never attempted to get too close. Hiyori was brave, she thought. Or maybe she was foolish; or reckless, or maybe she was all of those things all at once—and maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. It was unnerving to see someone only three feet away from the bride. Getting near her brought no good, no good at all. “Do you think <em> that </em> would change anything?”</p><p> </p><p>The bride was like the rusty barrel of a gun; unsafe, unstable, explosive. Hiyori was the ammunition. The only thing missing now was the triggerman.</p><p> </p><p>“Better than sitting around playing princess with you,” she openly scowls at Hiyori. “My words are heavier than yours. What would you be without your rules and your parents, Hiyori? Nothing. You would be rotting in your dorm. Except you'd still be over here—not six feet under.”</p><p> </p><p>Someone whispers behind Mian; it was almost inaudible, but she heard it. <em> If the bride rots underground, maybe she'd quiet down. </em></p><p> </p><p>She couldn't wrap her head around that.</p><p> </p><p>Because often when something was rotting in Creiler Woud it was silent; and often the silence sounded eerily akin to withered petals falling to the soil, dead leaves coiling up to a crisp, shovels lodging themselves inside the hard ground until they broke through the bedrock—and often Mian repressed the sound of metals scraping against the surface of the casket, because she didn't like it when something was rotting; to rot meant you were useless. To be useless meant no one in the world needed you anymore. That was a concept that she would like to only learn, not to experience. But the bride, on the other hand, was <em> rotting </em> and the pleas of help underneath her aggressive exterior were gradually climbing up from her system; still, however, the students showed no empathy. Their eyes were empty—the world was falling away, it seems, and the only thing they could see was the bride and the tears that went down her red, crimson cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>The girl in front of them was rotting, but silent she was anything but. And even if she were buried with the aspen, her screams in these halls would forever echo in resonance.</p><p> </p><p>“You will despise me after this,” harsh glare; her anger was transparent. A flash goes off in the middle of the crowd—it came from Floris, and his stupid film camera. He was laughing with Alise; and Natasha was laughing with her. No one shifted their focus to the three, seemingly too enamoured by the bride's brazen declaration. “Your eyes will see me dead in these halls until the day that one of you puts me out of my misery as well. Will you still be drinking your tea by then?”</p><p> </p><p>Third, it was supposed to be Enoch.</p><p> </p><p>But the two o'clock bell rings ominously, almost as if the bell tower heard the bride's rhetoric and as well as the sound of Head Iselmar's footsteps. One by one, the students hesitantly walk away from the alcove and into the direction of the mess hall. Mian watches as Nicholas places a hand atop Hiyori's padded shoulder, a reassuring <em>something</em> that she wasn't in the correct headspace to overread. Feng-Mian glances at the bride one last time. Her hands were shaking, still, and her ground shook with it judging by the way her knees trembled against her steady inclination on the stone wall.</p><p> </p><p>As Mian walked, the scent of vinegar dissipates just as an earthy, almost floral honey-like aroma overpowers the now empty hallways. Passionflower tea, she finds herself concluding, hoping sincerely in her head that this brew was not spiked with fentanyl this time around.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the letter | day -47</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Fey,</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Creiler Woud is located northeast from Northern Holland. It's a secluded forest in the Netherlands; within it is Cyclopia Academy of Arts in all its glory. Once you get here, you’ll see that the school itself looks way older compared to the pictures I sent you — but the floors do not crumble with each hard step of the students it houses, so I hope that's reassuring enough. It is surrounded by lakes, a sea; and I think you'd find it interesting to know that a small portion of the land is actually submerged in water. I attached some pictures in the back of this letter; take a peak?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyclopia is named after the flower, by the way. The founder was friends with the botanist that wrote the formal description for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>cyclopia</span>
  </em>
  <span> back in the 1800's. No matter what Chun tells you, my school isn't named after the rare birth defect. My Gods. How is she, by the way? Still snotty?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cyclopia </span>
  </em>
  <span>(as in the plant, or whatever) is more commonly known as honeybush now. But, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I've talked to the headmaster, and everything's been sorted out. Your things are organized already in your room at House Flevo. Your roommate is Aeri, as per your request, and I’ve made sure to place you at the house farthest from where Yue is staying at. Are we cool? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Actually, I lied. Yue’s house, the quaint Almere, is right around the corner from yours. Sorry about that? I did the best I could with the connections and resources I have. I’m lucky they sorted you into a house. Most transferees don’t get into these house thingies until they’re in fifth year, you know. The selection committee is pretty damn strict, if I do say so myself. It’s headed by the Kaufmanns — you’re familiar with them, no? Dad used to tell us stories of how we’re similar to the Kaufmann siblings. I’ve met the two of them, actually — but that’s a story for when you arrive here, maybe? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know what you’re thinking. “Why is Zao writing so much shit? He could have just sent me a message.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where’s the fun in that? You’ll get it after a few months. Phones are better when they’re turned off. Around here, at least. (Also, the internet’s a fucking bust here. We use this really outdated mesh messaging network. I’ll orient you about this in person, hm?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, also — you have to tell me how you got kicked out of your last school. What in the name of God did you do this time? You might break my record if you keep at it. Don’t know if I should be worried or proud, honestly. What do you think? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I guess that’s all I have to say as of now. Don’t write back. If you write back, then I would want to write back as well. And stamps are stupidly expensive here. One last thing, though — there’s a locked box under the floorboard of my closet’s door. Be a dear and bring it with you when you hop on your flight, please? Thanks, Fey. Love you! See you in 47 days.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<b>Z</b>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. chapter one | vienna waits for you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>day 0 | morning.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was a whistle in the distance and a squeal from down below. The tracks were practically corroding with rust, though that should have been the last thing on her mind when she awoke—after all she was nearly 5000 miles away from home; an entire continent away. Alas, however, Feng-Mian was never quite the type to read into the bigger things.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, she stared at the torn covers of the train seats with beguiling curiosity. Pity, she thought, how the avant-garde railway engine made her look forward to being inside the cabin when she was about to board it earlier at 4:29 in the morning, only to be disappointed subsequently by the sight of inebriated passengers, glass shards on the floor, and foam oozing out from the coaches. Don't judge the book by its cover, they said, but she liked to believe that they only invented that phrase in order to get away from the pressure of having to live up to certain aesthetics.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The train now approaching platform zero-two-six terminates here. This train is a service from Amsterdam Central. This train will terminate here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The voice was clear. Vastly different from what she was used to. The city was still dim when she dozed off at nearly five o'clock. That was all that she needed to know, anyway; the moment that the locomotive started passing by towering buildings, she knew that the whole ride toward Creil would be uninteresting, much like the flight from Shanghai to Amsterdam. Much like the cab ride from Rotterdam to Central Holland.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A number of trams in China usually passed through the suburbs, surprisingly enough, and sometimes through the rural areas, so the view that one would see when looking out the window was tree-filled grounds and leaning post lights; the scenery was always wide enough for the passenger to watch the clouds as they gradually drifted apart. Some days, they collided. In hours like that, Feng-Mian opted to just sleep in her seat and wait until the conductor whispered the arrival statement through the foggy, outdated PA system; and however annoying the sound of that may have been, she grew up listening to it, and anything relatively associable to that was inevitably going to send her mind flying back to the memory of Shanghai and the gust of air that never failed to suffocate her, literally and figuratively. Growing up in the city was the worst. For her, at least. Feng-Mian was better suited for the countryside, where the only thing that she would be able to judge and fixate on was the asymmetrical branches of the trees and the ever changing crisps of the leaves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, a long sigh made its way out of her lips. The floor was still rumbling when she stood up from her seat—it was because of the engine and its dying hum, she assured herself, and not at all because the wheels were slipping away from the tracks slowly, definitely not that. Feng-Mian slid open the luggage compartment from above her coach, and for a quick moment she forgot that she attached a small padlock around the handle of her bag and the small arch that poked from within the storage space, so she takes her time fumbling with the keys inside her gray skirt's left pocket. Once found, she reached out to free her carry on from its prison, mentally cursing her growth spurt for firmly stopping at five feet and three inches.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you need some help?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rather cautiously, she turned her head to the side after hearing the query, and almost immediately she was greeted by the sight of apple green eyes and a cordial smile. She came to realize after staring in bewilderment for longer than necessary that it was a man who approached her, a man with chestnut brown hair combed over to the right, enough strands falling delicately atop his forehead to call it a fringe. He wore a boring plaid vest on top of a white collared shirt; in the upper right corner, there was a small embroidery of an equestrian carrying a shield. Burberry. An authentic one, too, which meant that he probably belonged to a well-off family. Soon, she stepped out of the way to let him work out the “help” that he so graciously offered. He also extended out his hand, gesturing to her keys with his free one. After a wary nod, she passed him her keys.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to this part of North Holland?” It did not take Feng-Mian long to deduce that his accent was akin to that of a Dutch person’s. Maybe he was a local? He didn’t particularly possess any sort of defining feature that made him look like one, except the fact that he was white—but that was an entirely different discussion that she wasn’t interested in tackling as of the moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh? No offense, but,” she began while she averted her brown eyes elsewhere to ease the awkwardness that her next words would inevitably bring to the table. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.” However rude she sounded, she couldn’t find it anywhere within her to apologize. Her words rang true, and if this person was as polite as he seemed, then perhaps he’d understand why she had to be guarded around him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was in uncharted territory. Creil was dangerous for foreigners like her—well, scratch that. Any place was dangerous for anyone.</span>

</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man let out a small chuckle as he brought Feng-Mian’s carry on down from the compartment. “You’re right. That’s my bad.” He extended both of his hands out now, his left one held her keys while the other was wrapped around the handle of her bag firmly. Her eyes fell to the floor just as she retrieved her things from his grasp, muttering out a small word of gratitude.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She walked to the exit of the carriage alongside him, not bothering to initiate small talk whatsoever, as she knew it was unnecessary. And through his silence she knew he agreed, for why else would he be pursing his lips every now and then? He fought back many words, that much she was sure, though she didn’t care enough to ask about what they were. If anything, she was more interested in finding out why he felt the need to cover his eyes as soon as he was out of the train. The sun was not bright in the slightest, and if she were allowed to be frank and poetic, his smile from earlier shone brighter than the sunbeams.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waved her farewell, and then he proceeded to walk in the same direction as her. God, she hated this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My bad, again. Sorry.” He tried his hardest to hide his embarrassment, but it was still evident with how a flurry of pink rushed towards the high points of his cheeks. Feng-Mian shook her head dismissively, a light snicker climbing out from her throat for the first time in twenty-four hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You're not following me, are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? Of course not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just making sure. I don't want to get murdered anytime soon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He frowned when her joke was brought to life; she chose to ignore it. Humor was subjective, she assured herself inside her head, maybe he didn't appreciate jokes that referenced dying. Should that be the case, she probably wasn't going to get along with him. They continued walking in complete tranquility after that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'd like to make an offer—but keep in mind that I have no intention of doing anything bad.” He pointed to a silver car in the distance; in front of it was a man in a black suit, waiting idly all the while he carried a sign. Berhtram Izaak was written on it in the font Times New Roman. “Want a ride? If you're new around here, you're probably going to have a difficult time navigating the town.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feng-Mian raised a brow, first and foremost, and then she perched her hand on her hip. “Can I call shotgun, or would that be too bold of me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A whole-hearted grin, and then another nod. He was compliant with everything that she said, it was starting to become unnerving. She urged him thereafter to walk ahead of her. As it turned out, the man adjacent to the vehicle was his chauffeur, and based entirely on the conversation they had in front of her, she concluded as she swung the car door open that this Berhtram Izaak person was German, and not Dutch.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Coincidences weren't infrequent, but they also weren't supposed to be this convenient, or so she liked to believe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The train she boarded was filled with all sorts of people—though she categorized them between mainly as drunk or not drunk—but she was fortunate enough to meet someone who was undoubtedly heading to the same place that she was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Creiler Woud. A secluded forest; isolated from the rest of the towns in that particular part of North Holland. When Derich the driver led the car toward the small clearing that was (apparently) the entrance to the woods, the ambiance inside the car changed. Suddenly, it was too dark, too tense, but maybe the latter was just Feng-Mian being overly skeptical—in whichever way, whatever she felt that moment was valid. It juxtaposed the quaintness of the local town they passed by earlier. Ei-something. She forgot. She knew she was going to remember it tonight, though—perhaps when she was finally lying on her bed. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> was something she looked forward to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it supposed to be this dark here?” Was her question after minutes of forcing her eyes to look for even the smallest of apertures through the trees they passed by. At this point, she didn't even know how the man next to her was able to keep driving at a stable pace. The headlights were helpful, yes, but the darkness was still freakishly consuming to a fault. If paranoia managed to creep inside each corner of her skin, then Feng-Mian would never admit that out loud. The screen of her cell phone lit up briefly when she pressed the power button—she was receiving a signal, thankfully, but her relief was short-lived as soon as she remembered that she didn't have any number registered in her newly bought SIM card.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don't think any place was meant to be this dark.” Berhtram started, leaning forward to level his head near the front seats. He placed his elbows on top of the corners of the seats, his chin sandwiched between his two palms. Quite lazily, he pointed to the road ahead with his lips. “Don't worry. It gets a lot brighter later on. In the meantime, do you mind if I play some music?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shook her head. “Ah, no. By all means?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The male tapped Derich's shoulder after so; twice, gently, as to not startle him. The chauffeur tore his gaze away from the road, pressing and turning a few of the car radio buttons. When quick piano keys started playing, she decided then and there to listen intensively to the song instead of worrying over the lack of lights in the forest. The tempo was slow, kind of, and the singer's voice was pleasing enough to tolerate. Or something. She scoffed inwardly at her inability to find the right words for describing music. “What song is this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Vienna. Billy Joel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it Vienna, or Billy Joel?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Light laughter ensued among the three (Derich's participation surprised her more than she cared to admit) of them. It was easy to assume that the song was older than two decades, judging solely on the quality of the recording, and as well as the overall tone of the melody. And maybe it was because she was caught up in the sound of Berhtram's unusually good singing voice—but she theorized quietly that apart from the slight chance that he sang along proudly because he could relate to the lyrics, maybe he was particularly fond of it because he was from Austria.

Soon, unlike the song, the car sped up. “We're almost there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With one final, teasing grin, Feng-Mian shot a knowing look at the driver. “Slow down, you crazy child.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he didn't. And surely enough, in a matter of minutes, they reached yet another clearing. This time, however, light was not the only thing waiting for them at the end of the tunnel; an open wrought iron gate greeted them kindly, with rose bushes on each side. Feng-Mian also noted the bastion-like walls adjacent to the dark gate. They were crawling with vines. Mold. Her older brother was right, she thought, this school </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> look older in person. Not just because of the mold, by the way—the design of the gate looked almost Victorian, though she knew that it was probably Neoclassical if this school really was built during the early 1800s. Through the gates, the first out of twelve buildings stood tall, resembling Palladian architecture, especially with the pillars that hid the many windows of the main hall. By the scent of it alone, it was fairly obvious that certain walls were repainted recently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A significant amount of students were spread out across the field outside the school. Some were dragging luggages, some were taking pictures, some were intimidated by the gates.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyclopia Academy of Arts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss this school.” She didn't miss the underlying  bitterness present in Berhtram's remark; she only let it pass because fondness seemed to overpower his words for the most part. Maybe. She didn't know him well enough to say for sure. “Any last words before we go our separate ways?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feng-Mian cocked an eyebrow up at the male, her hand unknowingly falling on top of the car door's handle. For the second time, she stared with beguiling curiosity; at Berhtram Izaak and his green eyes this time, and not the prim and proper seats of his car. “That's a bit dramatic. We're literally going to the same school.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think you'll find it interesting how rare it would be to run into me again. The campus is bigger than what you're imagining.” He said.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was impossible, she told herself afterward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was exactly 8:15 in the morning when she ruffled his soft, brown hair and nodded. “It's a little late, but my name is Feng-Mian. My friends call me Fey.” The door to her side opened gently with a reassuring click after that. As soon as she planted the soles of her shoes firmly atop the untrimmed grass of Creiler Woud, she turned back once more to face her companion, waving at him endearingly, her carry on attached to her forearm still as she shut the car door close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the first time in perhaps her entire lifetime, the air was fresh inside her lungs.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>first: i'm sorry, i legit suck at character introductions. </p><p>but 2.5k words, heck yes. supposedly, this was going to be around 4.5k-ish, but i had to cut it in half az it was starting to drag on for too longTM. berhtram izaak supremacy, though. (ꈍᴗꈍ)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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